Wolf's Clothing, page 20
Christophe-the-wolf nudged Trent’s fist where it was clenched at his side, insinuating his head under it and wiggling forward until Trent’s hand was in the ruff of fur around his neck. Trent took the hint and grabbed a handful. God. Even better.
When Christophe paced forward, Trent took a deep breath and let himself be pulled along.
Surprisingly, if he didn’t count the fact Christophe seemed determined to lead him through every patch of blackberry brambles on the north side of Mount Hood, it wasn’t too bad. After all, what could hurt him when he had a wolf on his side?
Other than, you know, the wolf. Jesus fuck, he was seriously disturbed.
Christophe led him in a wide arc around the lodge terrace where the party continued in full swing. Trent shuddered. If he compared being up there, with a so-happy-he’s-stupid Logan and a bunch of drunken paranormal investigators, with being down here amid the fucking trees accompanied by a wolf-who-used-to-be-a-guy, he preferred where he was.
Seriously disturbed. But what the fuck.
Another blackberry vine scored a line across the back of his hand. “Dude. There’s a perfectly good path not thirty feet away. Do we have to play wilderness trek? Is that some kind of wolf thing?”
“Hey,” someone called from up the hill. “Is somebody there? The manager told us not to piss in the woods, man.”
Christophe cocked his head at Trent. “Okay,” Trent whispered. “I get it.”
They stayed still—difficult, because Trent was positive something was creeping up his back—until the partygoer staggered past on the trail and up the steps of the deck.
Only then did Christophe huff and continue, with Trent glommed onto his side like a leech. No way was he letting Christophe out of his sight while he was stuck in the middle of all this . . . foliage.
As far as Trent was concerned, the resort had done too good a job keeping the landscape undisturbed. Aside from an occasional drift of laughter from the lodge, or the glimmer of light between the trees from another one of the secluded cabins, Trent and Christophe might as well be in the Forest Primeval.
Once they’d gotten far enough from the lodge that the noise had faded completely, Christophe led them up onto a narrow dirt road. Finally.
He put his nose in the air and sniffed, then plunged into the woods on the other side. Damn it!
But at least this time they didn’t have far to go. Christophe was padding silently toward the unmistakable flickering glow of a fire.
What the fuck? A forest fire? So not good. It was early enough in the season that the forest wasn’t dry, but seriously? Open flames plus trees were never a brilliant idea.
Once they’d gotten closer, though, Trent saw that the fire was contained in one of those enclosed outdoor fireplaces on the patio of another cabin. Christophe halted while they were still screened by the trees, fairly vibrating under Trent’s hand.
Guess this must be the place.
Trent shifted from foot to foot. Someone was obviously home, unless they were an idiot who’d been careless enough to leave a fire burning. Nobody’s that stupid. Even I know better than that, and I’ve probably got the brain of a nineteen-year-old. Make that a twenty-year-old. His birthday was well and truly past.
The French doors opened and a man emerged, a tarp-wrapped bundle in his arms, and left the door ajar. Trent frowned. Something about the guy’s attitude didn’t feel right. I’ve seen him before too. But where?
Christophe’s muscles bunched under Trent’s hand, as if he were about to leap out of the trees, but Trent hunkered down, draping his arm across Christophe’s back, and whispered into his furry ear. “Shhh. Wait.”
When the stranger turned his head, Trent got a good look at his profile, and then he remembered. The elevator outside Christophe’s condo. He squinted, studying the guy’s face. His nose had the same aristocratic slope as Christophe’s. A relative, then.
The guy glanced back at the door and set the tarp bundle on an Adirondack chair. He unfolded the tarp and lifted something, giving it a sharp shake, like the crack of a gunshot in the silent woods.
Even in the flickering light of the fire, Trent recognized it.
Christophe’s jacket. What the ever-loving fuck?
Christophe tried to surge forward again, but Trent threw his other arm around him, tightening his hold. “Wait. This doesn’t feel right. Just wait.” Although Christophe trembled, he didn’t break away. “Good dog.”
Christophe stared at Trent and his canine eyebrow canted in what was obviously the wolf equivalent of Really, dude?
Patio Guy checked the jacket pockets, pulling an object out and holding it in his palm for a moment before enclosing it in his fist. He held the jacket up, studying it in the light.
Then he threw it in the fire.
Christophe jerked in Trent’s grasp, his chest vibrating.
“I know what you mean,” Trent whispered. “I loved that jacket.”
The guy watched the jacket burn for a minute, the light flaring and highlighting the satisfied smile on his face. Then he uncurled his fingers and held up the thing he’d taken from the pocket. It glinted gold in the glow from the fire. He smiled again and slipped it onto his left pinky.
He retrieved something else from the bundle—something white and less bulky than the jacket. Undershirt. He balled it up and shot it into the fire after the jacket.
“Good-bye, mon frère,” he said with a vicious lilt to the last words. “And good riddance.”
Christophe trembled in Trent’s embrace, half in anger, half in despair. Trent stared at him, eyes wide, and mouthed Brother? WTF?
Yes. My brother. His friend, his companion, his hero. Betraying him in this way. How could he do it? What had Christophe done to deserve this? For Anton knew what it meant to destroy Christophe’s clothing, his only means of returning to his human form.
Anton intended for him to remain a wolf forever.
The signet now circling Anton’s finger told its own tale, didn’t it? Anton wanted to be the heir. He had claimed to be so worried about their father’s response to Christophe’s decision to abdicate—what did he think this would do to the man?
Christophe quivered, and Trent’s arms tightened around him, centering him, until the jagged red urge to leap onto the terrace and take Anton’s throat in his jaws receded.
You didn’t need to do this. I would have given it all to you. I told you so.
It might not yet be too late. Anton hadn’t burned his shirt or pants yet, let alone his socks. Christophe needed only a single article of clothing and he could return to himself. He could reason with Anton, discover why he’d chosen this path. Christophe would never trust him again—at least not with his clothes—but this needn’t end with Christophe locked permanently in a form he loathed.
The door behind Anton opened, and Christophe nearly launched himself out of the woods despite Trent’s restraining hold when Etienne Melion emerged. Christophe hadn’t been imagining his scent; the bastard was here in the flesh. Had he threatened Anton in some way? Christophe wouldn’t have put it past him. He’d always been an evil-minded, sadistic shite, as far back as their first childhood meeting, when Christophe had discovered him torturing a wren.
Melion strolled over to stand next to the fire. “Really, Anton. Isn’t this a trifle melodramatic, even for you?”
“I could have sent them out for dry cleaning, but where’s the satisfaction in that?” Anton lifted Christophe’s shirt from the bundle and held it up in the light. “Do you know how much he spent with his tailor? Even Papa buys his shirts off the rack.” He took out his pocket knife, snicked it open, and slit the shirt from the back of the collar to hem. “Not that this one will help him now.”
Etienne chuckled. “So vindictive. I knew I liked you better than your prig of a brother.” He picked up Christophe’s pants and shook them as if he were enticing a puppy to play. “Feel the urge to savage these a bit before you incinerate them?”
“No.” He snatched the pants from Etienne and flung them into the fire along with the shirt. Christophe’s belly clenched when Anton wadded up the remaining clothes and hurled them into the flames. “Now I wish it over and done.”
“Were those the last?”
“Only what he wore this evening. I’ll clear out his room later. All of those are clean, however, so they’re no use to him.”
“Excellent.” Etienne stroked the back of Anton’s head and neck. “I was pleased to get your call. Overdue to my mind.”
“Mine too.”
“I can give you what you want. But you understand trade agreements, Anton. What price do you place on control of Clavret et Cie, unencumbered by your hide-bound sire or your short-sighted brother? With you at the helm, but with a werewolf in the wings to enforce your claim? Hmm?” He gripped Anton’s neck and shook him slightly. “What price would you pay for your dream?”
Anton’s spine was rigid. “I told you on the phone.”
“Tell me again.”
“Anything. Anything you want.”
“Then let us proceed.” Etienne inhaled, long and slow, his nostrils flaring. “I can smell him on you, you know.” His eyes flashed yellow in the firelight. “Down.”
Anton clenched his teeth. “Etienne.”
“Consider this your first lesson in how the Old Families conduct backroom negotiations.”
As Etienne unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly, Anton dropped heavily to his knees. When Etienne pulled his cock out of his briefs, a howl threatened to burst from Christophe’s throat, but Trent clutched him more tightly.
“Hands behind your back,” Etienne growled. “And open.”
Anton obeyed, and Etienne grabbed his hair and thrust into his mouth. While Anton trembled and groaned, Etienne bared his teeth at the dancing flames.
Trent couldn’t look. While he appreciated porn as much as the next guy, the live sex show with humiliation sauce on the side was more than he could handle. Besides, this was Christophe’s brother, for fuck’s sake. Although he’d just confessed to hating Christophe enough to do something dire to him—not that Trent was sure of the details—nobody deserved to have their privacy violated like this.
Judging by the tension in Christophe’s body, he wasn’t exactly a fan either. If Trent released him, he wasn’t sure who Christophe would go for first: his brother, or the guy who was face-fucking him. Either way, if he killed one of them, it wouldn’t be good for anybody.
So he held tight, pulled Christophe’s head against his chest, and buried his face in the rough fur.
After what felt like forever, Etienne shouted, followed by a choking sound from Anton. Guess backroom negotiators aren’t polite enough to pull out.
Trent peeked through the foliage, but kept Christophe’s head against his chest because no way did he need to see any of this. Etienne was buckling his belt while Anton was still kneeling at his feet, wiping his mouth.
“You’re sure about the ranchers’ routine?” He didn’t offer to help Anton rise, and obviously hadn’t allowed the guy to come—Anton’s trousers were bulging at the front. Douche bag. Anton had agreed to the deal though, and must have gotten into it a little, considering said bulge.
“Yes.” Anton pushed himself to his feet. “They never arrive at the north pastures until well into the morning.”
“It won’t do for me to arrive too early, then. We want to make sure they get the full effect, and know exactly who—or what—to blame for their poor, slaughtered sheep. In the meantime . . .” He grabbed Anton by the back of the neck. “Your next lesson will help pass the time.”
They returned inside, Etienne pushing Anton ahead of him.
Christophe lunged, almost escaping Trent’s grasp. Trent grabbed him in a nearly full-body tackle because, Jesus fuck, wolves were big—holding him until the door closed behind the two men.
Christophe growled, but his gaze was fixed on the door, so Trent knew who the anger was for. Disaster in the making, right here. He got up and hauled Christophe farther into the trees, putting more distance between them and the danger zone.
“Look, dude, I know you want to rip this guy apart. Maybe both of them. But you can’t. You need to think. That guy, Etienne, he’s going to pretend to be a wolf, yeah? Frame you for killing stock?”
Christophe stared at him, and Trent was amazed at how much sarcasm could show on a furry face.
“So you can’t be a wolf when it happens.” If wolves could snort, this one did. Canine disgust. Nice. “And you can’t do any other wolfy things in the meantime.”
He sat down next to Christophe in their underbrush fortress and hoped like hell none of the bushes were poison oak. From this vantage point, at the side of the cabin, they could see if anyone left by either the front or rear doors. “At least you know their plan now. So change back and confront them.”
Christophe huffed and laid his head on his paws, his snout pointedly turned away from Trent.
“I know it’s obvious, but work with me here. Is this, like, a full-moon thing? Because if you could change whenever you wanted, you’d probably already have done it, right?” Christophe’s ear twitched. “Do we wait until dawn? Will you change back then?” Another twitch, then a head shake that scattered fur in the air and all over the front of Trent’s hoodie. “Come on, dude, give me something besides doggy snark.”
Christophe raised his head—finally—and, God, his eyes were so . . . sad. Like in those commercials of dogs in cages at the pound, waiting to be put down. He sighed and rested his head on Trent’s leg.
“Okay. I guess we wait and see what happens next.” He put his arm around Christophe’s neck, amazed all over again that he wasn’t freaking out. Maybe that’ll come later. Delayed hysteria. But unlike in the aftermath of his nightmares, he had no urge to run. Not from Christophe. Christophe wasn’t like the implacable ghosts, or the hangman with his rope. He was a haven, a calm harbor, sheltering Trent regardless of fur quotient.
Yep, here I am. Cuddling with a werewolf. In his old legend-tripping days, this would have scored him major points with his group. If fact, they’d have probably crowned him their goddamn king. While those lame legend trippers in France had only seen a werewolf, Trent was hugging proof that the legend was real, and that proof currently wanted to take the head off his own brother. No wonder there aren’t many of them around.
Trent leaned against Christophe and resigned himself to being bored. Beats the hell out of being terrified. But with a wolf beside him—with Christophe beside him—not even the forest could frighten him.
Trent jerked awake, disoriented. Above him, the pearling morning sky was visible through a canopy of fir branches, and beneath him was an extremely furry pillow. He bolted upright, heart racing. Woods. Trees. He checked behind him. Wolf. Oh. Right.
Wait. “Christophe? It’s daylight. How come you’re still a wolf?”
Christophe cocked one eyebrow, and Trent felt stupid. Not like he can tell you the problem, idiot. He’s a wolf, and you’re not Dr. fricking Dolittle.
He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, his mouth dry and foul-tasting. God, what I wouldn’t give for a glass of water and a toothbrush. Shit, might as well wish for an airlift back to Portland—it was probably just as likely.
The forest seemed to have vomited on them overnight—twigs and brown fir needles were stuck to his jeans and hoodie, and more decorated Christophe’s fur. Christophe sprang to his feet—well, paws—and shook himself, scattering the detritus.
Trent shielded his eyes. “Dude.” Too bad I can’t clean up like that. He brushed at his sweatshirt, but the damn needles clung like Velcro. He stood up and peered through the branches at the cabin. What had woken him? Voices? There didn’t seem to be any activity going on. The windows were dark, the fire long dead.
Trent patted Christophe’s back tentatively. “Just so you know, I’ll help. Whatever it takes. I mean, I heard those guys plotting, so I can be a witness.” Yeah, he had sooo much credibility. He could just imagine telling his good buddy Detective Bishop that two wealthy European dudes were plotting to slaughter a bunch of sheep to frame another wealthy European dude who could turn into a wolf, but apparently had some trouble turning back.
Trent regretted taunting Bishop with the ghost war story back at the airport now. He’d probably dismiss this story as more of Trent’s smart-assery. Talk about the boy who cried “wolf.”
“Well, maybe that won’t work so great, but we’ll think of something. First we need to figure out—”
The front door opened and Etienne emerged, jangling his keys. Christophe lurched forward, but Trent buried both hands in his neck fur and pulled him back.
“Chill,” he whispered.
Etienne’s head jerked up and Trent ducked. Shit, did he hear that? He eased all the way down next to Christophe and held his breath, peering through the veil of undergrowth. Etienne raised his nose in the air as if he were sniffing something. Anton stepped out of the door, and Etienne glanced at him irritably.
“I thought I—” He shook his head. “Never mind. Directions?”
“Go up to the main highway and head south for about ten miles. There’s a forestry road on the left. Park there and head southeast for a couple of miles to the cave. You should be able to pick up his trail.”
“As long as you aren’t nearby to throw me off the scent. Is everything else in order?”
Anton nodded. “I’ll contact my father shortly with the news.”
“A few hours more and then we celebrate.” Etienne grinned at Anton. “How do you propose we do that?”
“I want—” Anton licked his lips. “Your choice, Etienne.”
Etienne clucked his tongue. “You almost slipped, Anton. You made a recovery, true, but a slip like that in negotiations could cost us dearly. Shall we discuss your punishment later, so that such a thing does not happen in the future?”
Anton pressed his lips together for an instant before inclining his head. “As you wish.”
“You’re learning. How satisfactory.” He inhaled deeply. “Ah, the shame of a Clavret. You’ve no idea how sweet the smell.” He gripped the back of Anton’s neck—hard, to judge by Anton’s grimace. “Meet me at the rendezvous. Don’t be late.”
